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Sonnets to Sidney Lanier 



Sonnets to Sidney Lanier 

And Other Lyrics by 
Clifford Anderson Lanier 



Edited, with an Introduction, 
by Edward Howard Griggs 




New York B. W. Huebsch 



1915 



Copyright, 1915, by 
B. W. HUEBSCH 






Printed in U. S. A. 

OCT 1 1 1915 

S)CI,A411919 



Table of Contents 

PAGE 

Introduction 9 

Sonnets to Sidney Lanier 15 

I. "Since com hath 'increment above, below' " . 17 

II. "My gentle tiller of right noble fields" . . 18 

III. "Thou art not plagued with any cares of life" 19 

IV, "Since thou art King, and I thy subject Prince" 20 
V. "Thou magic breather of the silver flute" . . 21 

VI. "When in the blaze of honor-giving eyes" . 22 

VII. "Never can I forget one wintry night" . . 23 

VIII. "What wonder that thy voice is true of sound" 24 

Other Lyrics 25 

Love's Reserve 27 

Hymn to the Great Artist 28 

The American Philomel 29 

Forest Elixirs 31 

Death in Life 33 

Wilhelmein 35 

Five O'clock Tea 36 

The Happiest 37 

To Mrs. Vinnie Ream Hoxie 38 

Benvenuto Cellini 39 

The Men Behind the Books 40 



PAGE 

Metric Genesis 41 

Transformation 42 

Edgar Allan Poe 43 

Keats and Fanny B. 44 

The Greatest of These Is Love 45 

His Silent Flute 46 

To a Poet Dying Young 47 

Acknowledgment 48 

The Western Gate 49 



Introduction 



INTRODUCTION 

"God gave us our relatives; v^^e thank the Lord 
He let us choose our friends," the modern 
scoffer has it — indicating the deeper significance 
in the spirtual relationship freely chosen. When, 
however, to the deep bond of blood is added the 
bond of friendship: when the fine spiritual re- 
lationship crowns the family affection: then in- 
deed is the union rare and wonderful. Such 
was the love of Clifford and Sidney Lanier — the 
love that found its finest literary expression in 
the sonnets that follow. 

In the Lanier brothers was the best blood of the 
old Southland, developing to fine, chivalrous 
manhood, touched with that tenderness that 
crowns the man with the woman's refinement of 
feeling and appreciation. Intimately together 
in boyhood and early college days, they fought 
through the splendid losing fight of the war, 
much of the time in close association. Sidney 
suffered captivity, while Clifford was ship- 
wrecked, but fortunately escaped that period of 
imprisonment, amid the horrors of Point Lookout 
prison, that broke Sidney's health and perhaps 

[9] 



caused his sadly early death. Devoted patriots, 
keeping faith with their dear lost cause, the 
brothers had in common that generosity of view 
and magnanimity of spirit that made them ac- 
cept the larger American ideals and cooperate in 
building the New South that is part of the new 
nation. 

Younger by two years and only less gifted than 
his marvelous brother, it seemed to Clifford, in 
the bitter time of reconstruction, that his duty 
was to put aside, as avocation, his longings for 
a literary career, and accept the less attractive 
sphere of business life. It was necessary for 
some one of the family to shoulder the material 
problem, and Clifford cheerfully accepted it, that 
Sidney might have the fuller freedom. A letter 
of their father to Clifford, under date of June 
23rd, 1878, gives the situation of CUfford's life 
at the age of thirty- four: 

"What you say relative to the distinction other 
men have won in the world brings to me an almost 
painful sense of your sacrifices. I do indeed 
daily think of you as a hero, who has had the 
courage to repress aspirations for distinction, 

[10] 



with the view of benefiting others. On the no- 
tion that what could not be well helped must be 
borne (for you and I have been environed with 
circumstances hard to deal with) I have re- 
luctantly acquiesced in your continued uncon- 
genial vocation. But the fact of acquiescence 
was only possible, first on the idea that you were 
thereby rendering important aid to dependent 
relatives, and, second, in the hope that every 
succeeding year would somehow bring about a 
change. ... I have not been without fear that 
in the midst of your brave work you have had 
moments of repining." 

If there were moments of regret, the sacrifice 
was made gladly and continued bravely. 
Though Clifford might not wed the muse, she 
remained a sister to him, and his output in the 
avocation of letters was significant and worthy. 

In Sidney Lanier's heroic struggles with ill- 
health and material difficulties, there were many 
times when he had to call for help to the brother 
who stood behind his aspirations — calls so pa- 
thetic as to bring tears to the eyes as one reads 
them in the tender brother letters. To these ap- 

[11] 



peals, made confidently, if reluctantly, the re- 
sponse was always swift and glad. Thus some of 
the laurel is due the one who helped make possi- 
ble the full-crowned song. 

When the material help was sent, it was trans- 
figured, not only by the spirit in which it was 
given, but by an accompanying sonnet, voicing, 
beyond the power of prose, the brother love. It 
is these sonnets, kept lovingly by SidneyLanier, 
and valued highly by him as poetry as well as for 
love's sake, that are here printed for the first 
time, with two exceptions; one having appeared 
in the Independent and one in the New York 
Times, shortly after Clifford Lanier's death. 
Sincere, direct, beautiful, and weighted with 
thought, they have at times a Shakespearian 
quality, reminding us of that unmatched cycle 
of songs of friendship. Brief and few as these 
sonnets are, it were a pity should they not live 
for a larger circle, not only for beauty's sake, 
but to strengthen our faith in love. 

The lyrics following these sonnets are selected 
from the little volume Apollo and Keats, pub- 
lished privately in 1902. Chiefly personal in 

[12] 



character, delicate in music, always sincere ex- 
pression of thought and mood, they belong with 
the sonnets as a memorial expressing the spirit 
and character of one of nature's gentlemen, 
generous, gifted, fine and true — Clifford Lanier. 
Edward Howard Griggs. 



[13] 



SONNETS TO SIDNEY LANIER 



Since corn hath "increment above, below;" 
Extracteth Hfe from wind and s\in and rain, 
Disdaining naught by which to germ and grow. 
And yearning ever for its golden grain : 
So canst thou never by the subtlest art 
Discover whence its larger growth hath come; 
To which, or root or stem or other part. 
Its strength imparted is by all or some. 
Thou canst not tell the aid it hath of each — 
The glow of Heaven or Earth's warm-clasping 

mould. 
Then rest thee well content : thy gospel teach 
In tuneful numbers worth far more than gold. 
This doubtful merit is the meed I gain : 
True poets grow by "help" of sun and rain. 

(February 20, 1875. To thy call for help, received today.) 



The editor is responsible for a few verbal or metrical correc- 
tions in certain of the sonnets — changes in most instances indi- 
cated by the author. 



[17] 



II 



My gentle tiller of right noble fields, 
Thou tuneful shepherd of the oaten reed, 
How far above the false capricious yields 
Of swarthy delvers in the mines of greed 
Is thy full gleaning of the poet's corn, 
Thy shepherding of melodies divine. 
Thy spiritual tilth, whereof is born 
A harvest satisfying, rich, benign ! 
What opulence of fickle treasured gold 
Can with thy real gain its wealth compare ? 
Foul noisome weeds doth that accursed mould. 
Fair luscious maize doth tins soul's garden bear. 
Then speed thy husbandry with Music's art — 
Thou hast for garner all the world's great 
heart ! 

(March 16, 1875). 



[18] 



Ill 



Thou art not plagued with any cares of life — 

Infesting worries of this earthly sense ; 

For thou canst pipe to peace, contending strife, 

And win the love of chafing malcontents 

By wise, benignant largesse of thy song : 

Thou makest of all foes thy vassals good. 

If cares assail, intent to do thee wrong, 

Thy spirit's powers, like armies in a wood, 

Beat fine alarums of such melting tone, 

And troop unto thy call in such array, 

That ere they muster, all thy cares are gone. 

Their stings, their weapons thrown in flight away. 

No hate can with thee live, thou gracious King 

Of harmony and high imagining! 

(March 17, 1875.) 



[19] 



IV 



Since thou art King, and I thy subject Prince, 
To do thee homage bound by love and pact, 
I but the simplest loyalty evince 
To pay thee dues of fancy and good act. 
How can I ever render thee thy due? 
What cannot counted be, cannot be paid. 
Infinity, acquit by quittance true. 
Is only by infinitude defrayed. 
Thus friends in strangest enmity are met : 
My loyalty and love forever strive. 
This one to pay, that to increase the debt. 
What one would kill, the other would revive : 
But 'tis no war of Ghibelline and Guelph — 
Each fain would aid his foe against himself. 



[20] 



Thou magic breather of the silver flute, 
Arion skillful of our later time — 
Enchanting men by thy enchanted lute, 
And driving to thy yoke of lusty rhyme 
Wild sea-shapes strange and deepest mysteries, 
In that all boundless ocean of thine art ; 
Who, coming to thy called consistories, 
Straight do thy bidding and espouse thy part ; 
So that thou buoyest high upon the wave 
To Havens sweet, in Fame's proud glories 

drest — 
Behold, already thy tamed coursers lave 
Their shining figures in Fame's port of rest ; 
And thou, wave-beaten bard, in kingly form. 
Art promontoried high above all storm! 



[21] 



VI 



When in the blaze of honor-giving eyes 
Thy fame hath raised thee to a dizzy height, 
Wilt thou forget the sweet confederacies 
That fill our past with such a tender light ? 
Wilt thou erase from that full page, thy heart, 
The careless copies childhood splotched thereon, 
Or those that boyhood wrote with fairer art, 
Or those unfading later lists, whereon 
The perilous companionship of war 
Inscribed its roll of brothers' courtesies — 
Infractions of low self-defending law. 
Sanctions of love and selfless chivalries? 

All in my credit, thou art sure to set ; 

All that's thy due, is all thou wilt forget. 



[22] 



VII 

Never can I forget one wintry night 
Of seeming endless cold and weary march : 
Thy soul panoplied, serene and bright, 
As conquering hero through triumphal arch. 
Walked resolute himself, and giving aid 
To me who faltered on the trying way 
And weak complaints continually made. 
Thou, leader firm of thy brave soul's array, 
Didst cheer my ever drooping forces on 
With helpful arm and hopeful-ringing voice. 
Till night despaired, and pgean-singing morn 
At last bade nature and our souls rejoice. 
Of helpful love, love's gratitude arises — 
No night, no dark, and dawn hath no surprises 



[23] 



VIII 

Antonio. — His word is more than the miraculous harp. 
Sebastian. — He hath raised the wall, and houses too. 

— Shakespeare, The Tempest. 

What wonder that thy voice is true of sound, 
Its measures fitting there where deftly thrown; 
For Music walls a Theban city round, 
And thou art Master Architect of tone. 
What wonder that thy music ravisheth, 
When its own harmonies it doth rehearse ; 
For then thine Art Creative lavisheth 
On these the subtle spirits of thy verse. 
Amphion, thus, thou art, of higher mould: 
He rounds a mart ; thou dost a temple make 
Wherein thou worshipest — thy penance told 
With flute and song for dear Religion's sake. 

In faithful verse thou tellest o'er thy creed ; 

Thy life — all music — is a hymn in deed. 



[24] 



OTHER LYRICS 



LOVE'S RESERVE 

To Wilhelmein 

To Her — my lovely and steadfast comrade — 
whose approval has ever been my most welcome 
laurel (Love's reserA^e yielding to the lures of 
Art) I offer this volume. 

The poet, raptured, gazing wifeward, said: 

Thou art the self of Beauty to my sight; 

Thy figure shapen is in lines of light 
From dainty feet to glory-crowned head; 
With perfect rhyme those lithe arms, upward 
spread, 

A pulsing couplet form in rhythm right; 

And o'er thy bosom drape the vestments white. 
Tender as words by music vestured. 
If verse now had the graphic warmth of sun, 

If Love could body what his heart would hide, 
If thou wert less than wifely vestaled nun. 

Dear love of thee might yield to Art's fond 
pride, 

And, dressed in poet's breath, these veils aside, 
Thou should'st be wife and poem merged in one. 



[27] 



HYMN TO THE GREAT ARTIST 

Watery seas He folds in a vesture of cloud, 
And the hearts of their shells He molds, 

Till these utter their multiple music aloud, 
And rapture of speech bursts the clod that He 
holds. 

For dumbness is not of the work of the Lord : 

Star spaces and far feel the breath of His flute. 
Day breathes to the night, night fugues all 
abroad. 
Where far-streaming star-beams are strings of 
His lute. 



[28] 



THE AMERICAN PHILOMEL 

Ah sweet — our mocking bird, 

The many-tongued ! 
From highest top of yon church pinnacle, 
Whose ghttering point thus quivers into song, 

His voice! 
The church's faith and love 

Now seem to blossom in 
Nor flower nor odor, but in sound. 
Gone is the day, passed with its Sabbath forms: 
The zeal of Sunday-school in children's eyes. 
Blazing to kindle bright the farthest isles. 
Now fades in children's dreams this summer 

night. 
And yields their fane to loveliness of song. 

Balm-breathing harmony, 
What tenderness is thine! 

The air is all ethereal; 
The moonlight, soft affection's sweetest smile ; 
The fragrant trees are Beauty's ministers. 
And dewy lawns lie tearfully adream. 



[29] 



Sweet, bird-blown flute, 
Thou weavest poesy and lore in one — 

Religion, history and song, 

Wild-flowers and wheat. 
An Indian maiden with the heart of Ruth, 
Withheld by tribal hate from joy and love. 

And pining faithfully. 
Might utter such a plaint as thine 

Now is. Anon, 
Some antique Miriam's triumph swells 
In rising, crescent, cymbal-clashing notes, 
Joyous, outringing as a peal of bells. 

An alabaster box of Music's nard 
Upon the feet of Love thou shatterest. 
These drops of dew are fragrant with its sweet; 
These pendent boughs seem blessing hands; 
Out of grim shadow, benedictions come; 

Moonlight like Christ's forgiveness beams : 
Thy heavenly throatings whisper to the soul 

Undying faith, supernal. 

Love eternal. 



[30] 



FOREST ELIXIRS 

Inhaling strength with every breath 
Soft blown across the mountain way, 

I stroll where autumn's crimson death 
And Summer's resurrection say 

The annual rhyme of death and life. 

Smooth winds the road o'er covert glade, 
On upward slope, by varying strife, 

For mastery, of light and shade. 

Here greenery hath conquered all, 
And dominates a world of love ; 

Yon distant hill is mighty thrall 
Of mastering blueness throned above. 



'o 



Here find I quiet rest I seek 

Far from the turbulence of men, 

And mildly importune the meek 
Faun-voices of the Woodland glen. 

Where think not that the woods are still ; 

For whomso'er can overhear, 
Each runlet speaketh, and each hill — 

A music hid from carnal ear. 
[31] 



The dumb rocks hint their history; 

And myriad winged things float past, 
With messages of mystery 

Sent from the dim, leaf-shadowed vast. 

All tender moss that steadfast clings 
To warm the oak-root, mantle wise, 

Some answer has to questionings. 
Repose for restless subtleties. 

If I would staunch an anguish sore 
That contumely's thrust hath made. 

Or into wounds mild healing pour, 
Away from battle-fields of trade, 

I walk amid these leafy balms — 
Wood distillations magic breeds — 

Upborne upon the upheld palms 
Of elfin greenwood Ganymedes ; 

And learn how thought is kin to prayer. 
That grace, as juices from earth's sod, 

Flows through the veins of spirit, where 
Man's soul doth feel the touch of God. 

[32] 



DEATH IN LIFE 

'Tis eight o'clock in the morning, 
The cukninating moon at west ; 

A perfect day from its dawning, 
As e'er maternal night expressed. 

The soft wind blows with thrilling zest. 
And all around, in earth and sky. 

Blithe sunshine makes it manifest 
God's thought to-day is ecstasy. 

If wine expressed from heavenly fruit 
Had winnowed through cloud-filters laced, 

And had been miracled to suit 

Some finer sense than mortal taste, 

It might give life, as does this air — 
Apollo's strings were not more tense ; 

September murmurs everywhere 
With thrills of faint-heard instruments, 

As if the sounds of all past days. 
Ascending through the scale of time. 

Had lost all accents save of praise, 

And reached the height of perfect rhyme. 



The mime-bird sings, outspreads his wings 
On wavy curves from tree to tree; 

Unruffling by his airy swings, 
And by his carol's melody 

The lake of grass or aught it holds. 

Now close he whirs o'er yonder head: 
Unsprings his foe — one stroke ! He folds 

His wings — the lilting voice lies dead. 

O crystal Source of perfect thought, 
This comfort in my heart distil 

From bleeding Nature, parable-fraught : 
That death's not ill, but Wisdom's will ! 



[34] 



WILHELMEIN 

A Portrait 

A PATIENT sadness in the lovely face 
That melts to tenderness within the eyes, 
Now dark, now bright, as in the dew-drop lies 
A shadow brightening in a sunny place ; 

Shy dimples in the cheeks that come and go 
As laughter rises from the brimming heart; 
Soft folds of lustrous hair; lips half apart 
As if a kiss escaped and left them so ; 

One fair hand thrown aside in careless gesture 
To grasp the rose, down-fallen in her vesture — 
The rose is passing sweet, yet lacks it grace 
To keep me longer from that sweeter face. 



[35] 



FIVE O'CLOCK TEA 

(On Presenting a Tea Urn) 

Life's haply come, my Dear, for you and me. 
To just this stage of cozy afternoon tea; 
We've tasted bhthe youth's many a fete, 
'Tis sweeter now — the duo tete-a-tete. 

If e'er the boiling urn was brewed too hot. 
Love's soothing curd would cool the silvern pot; 
Life tenders some its wine, unlike mine, thine, 
Whose tenderness makes life a draught divine. 

Infusing, steeping love in our lives. Dear, 
Thy fellowship extends a daily cheer. 
Spiceful as Orient leaf, thy sweetness lures 
Like fruit of island bowers; thy charm endures. 

May life continue. Sweet, for you and me. 

One glorious chat o'er deep-drawn, fragrant tea! 



[36] 



THE HAPPIEST 

If now the Master of the feast should stand, 
Seeking the happiest at Hfe's festal board, 

To crown him King with garlands, and to hand 
To him the joy-brimmed, silver, carven gourd 

Of happiness to quaff — whose should it be? 

His, rich in pleasures gathered from all parts 
Of earth? Nay, nay, the happiest is he 

Who garners joy from joys of others' hearts. 



[37] 



TO MRS. VINNIE REAM HOXIE 

On Leaving Montgomery, December 16, 1888 

Fame, honor and remembrance live in time 
For those who worthily have sung or wrought; 
One name is chapleted with blooms of rhyme, 
Another festooned o'er with braids of thought. 
Essaying fame, the mailed soldier stamps 
And prints an image rude of cruel deeds; 
Forgiving Love forgets his frowning camps, 
And writes in moss her loveliest creed of creeds. 
To us you bind yourself with triple chain — 
Sculptor, poet, above all else a friend. 
Thus recollection strives to soothe our pain. 
And would with tenderness our grief amend — 

To all the world she speaks in shapes of Art; 

For us she rhymes our souls with her own heart ! 



[38] 



BENVENUTO CELLINI 

Thou, sculptor, bravo, craftsman cunning, bold. 
Musician, poet, man of many parts. 
Thy time's most fei*vid lover of such arts 
As body forth rare forms in bronze and gold ; 
Epitome of them who leave the old. 
And ever seek fresh ventures of new marts; 
Born where the flowing Arno streams and darts. 
To warm in sun his flower-dipped waters cold : 

Thou art the type of bankrupt souls' sad loss. 
Who come so close to fortune and true gain; 
Like fallen angels shut from out Heaven's gate 
They miss Elysium by a coin's toss. 
And glory, straitly missed, redoubles pain: 
Thine art, Christ-touched, had been immaculate! 



[39] 



THE MEN BEHIND THE BOOKS 

From cabined walls of close-ranged, dusty 

shelves, 
Whereon the effigies of great thoughts are 
In print, mine inner sense would break the bar 
And find the treasury of their inmost selves — 
Shakspeare's, while visioning midsummer elves 
With queen Titania in her wee nut car; 
With dreaming poets range from star to star, 
Or plunge in caverns plumbing science delves : 

To gaze beyond this pale on Keats' dear soul — 
Endymion 'mong the stars of Beauty's sky; 
On Milton's, hearing heavenly battles roll; 
Through Wordsworth's, know each tender flow- 
eret's eye: 
With humble workers, study moss and clod. 
And with brave singers, feel the breath of God. 



[40] 



METRIC GENESIS 

The poet brings not something out of naught : 
He breathes into a dream: Lo! — Adam — 
Thought! 

Dumb lonesome thought for want of music weeps, 
And rhythm — Eve — discloses as he sleeps. 

Whence God does set his seal upon the pair — 
Speech, Eden is, with Eve and Adam there. 



[41] 



TRANSFORMATION 

The humblest life that lives may be divine: 
Christ changed the common water into wine. 
Star-like comes Love from out the magic East, 
And Life, an-hungered, finds his fast a feast. 



[42] 



EDGAR ALLAN POE 

Dreaming along the haunted shore of time, 
And mad that sea's iEolian song to sing, 
He found the shell of beauty — rhythmic rhyme- 
And fondly deemed its sheen a living thing. 



[43] 



KEATS AND FANNY B 



A STAR beheld an image in a spring — 
His own beams robed in heavenly vesturing. 
Out-burned his fire and faded from the sky: 
The clear earth-rill purled on indifferently. 



[W\l 



THE GREATEST OF THESE IS LOVE 

We know not the very heart of the lute; 
We only hear the beat of music's wings — 
The garment's rustle as it shaping clings 
About the bodied soul — whether low flute 
Or trumpet's large, world-full, resounding bruit 
That summons to enchant the state of kings. 
We hear the organ's far-drawn murmurings, 
But from the holiest Holy all is mute: 

Maybe we host an angel unaware. 
We cherish knowledge, tongues and prophecies, 
Forgetful how these vanish into air, 
Whereof they frame their winning mysteries. 

Love, love alone, in music, life and art, 
Remains the angelic friend-guest of the heart. 



[&^] 



HIS SILENT FLUTE 

To Sidney Lanier, 1881 

Each life is tinct with joyousness and pain: 

A web of measured silences and sound, 

In subtle plan of patterns deftly wound; 

And with a heart of love, is Music. Rain, 

Sunshine, are tides of one wavering Main, 

Whose throbbing bears the prow of life to port. 

E'en on the parapet of Hatred's fort, 

Some bruised violet of love will fain 

Its banner wave for Brotherhood and God. 

Such alternates do fleck the whole vast round — 

A star, a comet, lost, is a planet found. 

This comfort would I take from star and clod — 

I hear it murmuring from his silent flute : 

Death is not death, but life that's briefly mute. 



[46] 



TO A POET DYING YOUNG 

Sidney Lanier 

Much like some mountain-springing crystal rill, 
Or burgeoning of trees that bravely climb 
The sunniest crag of all ; now like the mime 
Of mock-bird trilling gaily, then death-still, 
As if his mate-bird's answer hushed his trill, 
Or some god whispered in his ear, " 'Tis time 
For holy meditation," — so thy rhyme 
Did falter, seeking beauty and love's will. 

Too short, ah, sadly short, thy days for song, 
For work, for prayer, for far-envoyaging 

thought ! 
Ah me ! no time nor strength for righting wrong. 
Thy soul well knew man's apathj^ had wrought. 
Thou couldst but trill, as thou didst limp along, 
High hints of music's heaven, thy soul had 

caught. 



[47] 



ACKNOWLEDGMENT 

To All Who Love Sidney Lanier 

As in one planet-mocking globe of dew 
May lucent glow the full-spanned arc of blue: 

Since one clear stroke of Time's star-guiding 

bell 
Unending happiness or woe may tell: 

Since came a world of light from just one word 
Of God, and all the stars of morning heard: 

Then let one murmured word from me express 
A fervent round of grateful tenderness. 



[48] 



THE WESTERN GATE 

Gold in the morn; silver shine at noon; 

Gold after noon; 'tis twilight now. 
Dusk wanes the day; old voices croon; 
And pales the aureole on age's brow. 
Fitful, the flame upon the cottage fire 
Burns like the heart of chill desire. 
The hmbs, with ache, like worn-out timbers 

creak ; 
And scarce the smoke may climb the chimney 

peak. 
Dim sounds of uproar that the Present makes 
Come through the window; Memory fonder 

shakes 
Old sides to laughter and old hearts to tears. 
All brave dehghts of youth give way to fears. 
Grandchildren romp not with the glee of yore. 
A sadness never felt before 
Creeps in the mind. The hand clasps not as 

strong. 
New songs sing not as that old song — 
Clear with the truth 
Of candid youth, 
And sweet forsooth 
[49] 



As the limpid, twinkling sheen of the Romance 

well, 
Or sweetheart-gospels lovers tell. 
As truest chime of the marriage bell, 
As loveliest child-bloom ever fell 

From gardens where home-blisses grow 
And joys of heaven with angels dwell 

And Love's uncankered roses blow. 

Cometh now life's afterglow: 

O'er yonder sun the clouds drift slow. 
Like sleepy birds that seek the nest, 
On drowsy-moving wings almost at rest — 
So smooth their flight into yon darkling West. 

Gold in the morn; silver shine at noon; 
Gold after noon; new soft lights beam, 
Whereof the heart of youth may merely dream : 
Pearl, amber, lucent sard are in yon gleam. 
In circles ever moveth life around, 
Without decline ; eve puts no term nor bound ; 
Age at old portals is await 
For that new scene beyond the gate. 
This little grain of life was sweet : how grand 
The planetary round of God's new landl 

[50] 



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